


A Thing Of Beauty

by clockworkrobots



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Victorian, M/M, Romantic Comedy, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-02
Updated: 2014-05-05
Packaged: 2018-01-07 02:51:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1114607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clockworkrobots/pseuds/clockworkrobots
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel Milton, infamous social recluse, meets Dean Winchester in one of his <i>least</i> favourite venues: a ballroom. Quickly, however, Mr. Winchester becomes one of his <i>most</i> favourite people. </p><p>This might be a happy occasion, if Castiel Milton wasn't certain Dean Winchester is intended towards his sister.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

  
***

  
_A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:_  
 _Its loveliness increases; it will never  
_ _Pass into nothingness..._  


\-- _Endymion_ , John Keats _  
_

  
***

  
It was all very well and dignified for a man of Castiel's age and station to make appearances at events such as these, but were it not for the insistent behest of his dear sister, Castiel Milton would hardly ever deign to attend a ball at all. His sister Anna, however, was a very persuasive woman indeed, and Castiel longed to please her, so it unfortunately followed that he came to make many a public appearance he would have otherwise avoided. 

It was not that he was _entirely_ taciturn by nature, for he did like to converse and revel in the company of those he felt enriched by. Unfortunately again for him, he often found that lot to be scarce at best, and practically non-existent in general, especially in a place as frivolous as a ballroom. 

Castiel wouldn't presume to call himself a gentleman, but the role did become him. Educated at the best schools, wanting for very little in the way of wealth or connection, and possessing a sharp and almost strange sort of handsomeness (though not at all undesirable), that meant, as a confirmed bachelor, Castiel was a much talked about prospect in venues such as these. So perhaps even more lamentably, standing as he currently found himself at his sister's side, he fit right in.

Taking in the collection of dancing couples, chattering spectators, and groups of gossips before him, Castiel sighed before offering his arm to his sister to take her about the room. She looked radiant tonight, he thought--though admittedly, she usually did. Red air pinned up at the back, ringlets falling to frame her face, Anna Milton was a beauty to behold. But she was also Milton, and so there was no shrewder player of society's high life than her. Castiel would hardly need to ever be defensive if anyone were to propose to have her: Anna would simply take them _herself_. 

"Oh! Castiel, look at that man there," she whispers excitedly into his ear when Castiel's concentration starts waning. "Handsome, is he not?"

Her line of sight directs him to an entering party at the threshold of the ballroom, comprised of a regal looking older woman, what Castiel assumes to be her younger daughter on her left, and a man of robust, strong stature on her right, who could perhaps be her son or a close acquaintance.

"I suppose," Castiel offers, though admittedly his sight is slightly obstructed by the distance between him and the doorway. His interest in someone he will likely never encounter again is staggeringly low enough to perhaps be called comical. Castiel however, is not laughing. His frown is very severe indeed.

Anna cranes her head around further. "And arriving with the Harvelles, too! I wonder why we had not seen him before."

Her lingering gaze reveals her keen and genuine interest, but Castiel remains loathe to interact with strangers this evening. He very much hopes he shall not be obliged to provide introductions, but, ever the doting brother, of course he would provide it. Castiel hates standing upon ceremony, but Anna is certainly worth all the pain of it and more.

Anna is much more similar to Castiel, however, than he rightly gives her credit for, for she is making her way across the room like she owns it (she rather _does_ ), forcing Castiel to chase after her. He stalks dutifully behind her, and when he arrives close to the newly arrived party, he sees Anna has already charmed the Master of Ceremonies over to introduce her. Apparently Castiel is not needed here at all.

He makes to turn away, feeling somewhat absurdly spurned by his own sister, when she calls his name again with all her easy charm.

"Castiel! Come and meet my new dear friends," she smiles as she waves him over.

"This is my brother, you've met him once before, I believe, Mrs. Harvelle," Anna smiles again. Castiel does the appropriate bow towards the ladies, and a short, sharp nod towards the unknown gentleman of Anna's interest. "Though he does not attend social events quite as often as he ought to," Anna laughs at his expense. Castiel cannot quite blame her.

"I'm a very busy man," Castiel explains stiffly.

"Yes, you certainly seem very busy this evening," the man to the right of Mrs. Harvelle jokes, with a smirk. Castiel turns his gaze to him.

He is certainly a good deal handsomer up close, Castiel will give him that. And his features are soft and shocking enough that Castiel would easily call him beautiful. He is blessed with a set of full, flush lips, and a perfectly curved nose, speckled with an array of freckles. His hair is short cropped, perhaps unfashionably so, but the style does become him. Whomever this man is, Castiel predicts he will very soon make the whole ballroom quite in love with him.

He is also, however, somewhat blunt. Castiel clenches his jaw. "It becomes a man to make an appearance in society on occasion," Castiel says defensively, and then shares a knowing look with his sister. "Or so I am told by those wiser than me."

"Well, from what I know of Ms. Milton, Mr. Milton, your sister enjoys your company here very much indeed," the young woman who must be Mrs. Harvelle's daughter says to him. Castiel distantly recalls her name being Joanne, or Joanna, but Anna has always been the one far more familiar with the family.

"And I am happy to provide it," Castiel nods, and notes out of the corner of his eye, the still as of yet unnamed man staring at him, considering.

After an awkward pause the man jumps to life, and offers his arm out to Anna. "May I engage you for the next dance, Ms. Milton? I was lured here on the promise of many pretty ladies, and I seem to have been very lucky to meet the prettiest one first." His smile his wide, beaming. Castiel notes he is very good at this flirting business, indeed.

Anna laughs accordingly, pleased by the compliment. Castiel's frown deepens, but his eyes never leave the face of the handsome, strange gentleman.

 

  
***

 

  
When the dance is over, and the next one, and the next one, Anna and her companion return to Castiel's side giggling and red-face with exhaustion.

"Cas, I'll be right back," Anna tells him when she reaches him, touching his upper arm gently. "I simply _must_ go tell Mrs. Braeden how lovely her gown is this evening before she leaves."

She turns to her dancing companion. "Excuse me, Mr. Winchester, I've just spotted a friend that I must say hello to."

"By all means, miss," Mr. Winchester unfolds his arms, conceding. When Anna wanders off to go meet her friend, he then turns to Castiel. "Your sister's very sweet," he says, after a stiff pause.

"She is far more than that," Castiel responds, challenging.

"Well, yes," Mr. Winchester laughs. "But I haven't gotten the chance to know her far more, now have I?"

Castiel's expression sours. Apparently Mr. Winchester is a consummate charmer. That _could_ mean something very dangerous for Anna, but Castiel is afraid it might mean something rather more dangerous for _himself_.

"You could only hope for the chance," he says sharply, hoping to end the conversation there.

Mr. Winchester, though, is not so easily deterred. "So, Cas, right? She mentioned you, while we were dancing."

Castiel is too surprised by the fact that Anna talked about him of all people to chastise the use of his Christian name, and shortened at that. "She did? Whatever for?"

"She likes you very much," he says, and then pauses, taking a moment to take Castiel in. Finally, after a moment of mysterious deliberation, he says, "She seemed to think I would like you very much, too."

"Perhaps a bit of a presumption," Castiel laughs, for the first time this evening. "I don't like many people."

"Ah, she never said anything about _your_ affections," Mr. Winchester grins. "And I like a challenge, she was very astute in that."

Castiel frowns. This man is acting awfully familiar with him, and he has absolutely no idea what to make of that. His heart beats faster, but he controls himself, and tightens the stance of his shoulders. "We have known each other not an hour and already you are set on becoming friends, why?" he asks, as blunt as Winchester had been himself, in their first encounter.

Dean meets his piercing stare with a strong set jaw. "Your sister has a very persuasive smile," he says, though Castiel wonders if that's not quite what he means.

Castiel frowns again, narrowing his eyes with suspicion at Mr. Winchester's intent, but has to concede the point.

"She does indeed."

 

  
***

 

  
If Castiel had thought Anna's interest in Mr. Winchester and his friends would taper off after that evening, he was grossly mistaken. If anything, Anna's interest in calling on the Harvelles increased something close to ten fold, regularly spending time with the young Ms. Harvelle. The acquaintance makes a very proper sort of sense, Castiel cannot deny, for Ms. Joanna and his sister are fairly close in ages and temperaments, and therefore make for fast and intimate friends. But Castiel wonders if the old acquaintance between them, for they have known the Harvelle family for a good few years, that has been fast forged into best friends is not aided just a little by the addition of a handsome, available gentleman staying in their house.

When he should be focusing on important things like money and politics and familial duty, instead, Castiel is very preoccupied by the politics of the heart, and a pair of bright, green eyes that had set this all in motion.

It's not that he's _jealous_ of his sister's proximity to Mr. Winchester, hardly. That would be absurd. He barely knows the gentleman (which is really the very crux of the problem: he wishes to know the gentleman a good deal _more_ ). Castiel therefore tells himself instead that it's just the good concern of a sibling that he becomes rapidly obsessed in his sister's visits to House Harvelle.

"You are spending a lot of time with that Mr. Winchester," Castiel attempts to note indifferently one day, hoping a little desperately that his face is schooled quite impassively. It's certainly not that _he_ is interested in such things, no, and certainly not interested in the comings and goings of _Mr. Winchester_ , off all people. He simply has an idle interest in his sister’s social life, naturally, as a doting brother should do.

Never mind that it is the first time he has ever expressed such unprompted interest in his life.

Anna quirks a brow, and sets her tea cup back down on its saucer. “We are friends, spending time with one another is usually what one does, Cas,” she chides.

Castiel raises his own eyebrow in friendly challenge. “Are you insinuating I have no understanding of the conventions of friendship?”

His sister grins victoriously. “I’m insinuating _theory_ is not the same as practice.”

 

  
***

 

  
In the following months since the revelatory ball of Castiel and Anna Milton's particular fascination, Castiel tries his very hardest to put all thoughts of Mr. Winchester and his easy smiles out of his mind. If Anna has interest in him, he tells himself, she deserves that happiness. Certainly Mr. Winchester seemed to return the affections offered that evening.

It's with this logic that Castiel tries, to mostly ineffective results, to taper down his own affection for Mr. Winchester that grows within his chest. This naively hopeful attempt to forget the man is somewhat helped by the fact that Castiel's elder cousin, Sir Gabriel Milton, becomes embroiled in an adulterous scandal that rocks the society pages for some weeks, and Castiel becomes very busy in attempting to quiet the whole business down. When it comes to Sir Gabriel, Castiel has had a good deal of practice.

"I swear, one day Gabriel is going to out-do himself and disappear into the Continent entirely, and then I will finally find some peace," Castiel says to his sister, as he collapses into his favourite chair by the fire. Across the room, his sister sits by the window, writing a letter.

"You forget the fact that half of his delight with scandals like these is the ordeal he puts his family through," Anna tells him without peeling her eyes off her page.

Castiel sighs in concession. "And that is why I hate him."

"That is why you _want_ to hate him," Anna corrects. She knows her brother all to well. "I don't think you ever quite manage it though, Castiel. And _that_ is your great failure. You will always help him." Anna is right, of course, as she always is in her astute observations of others. Castiel has always felt a dissonant sense of duty towards his family. Dissonant, because as much as his exhausting relations age him faster than any bad habits of drinking or smoking ever could, they _are_ his family.

"And yet again you are too keen for me to complain happily," Castiel says.

Anna looks up from her letter all of a sudden, eyes wide, as if an idea has finally come to her. "You know, dear brother," she begins, in that soft tone of hers that means she is about to convince Castiel to do something he might not want to do. "Mr. Winchester has invited myself and the Harvelles out to his house in the country while he attends to business back there. If I'm not mistaken he included _you_ in the invitation. It would provide good distraction from all this Gabriel business."

That, Castiel cannot, in fairness deny. The problem with being imbedded within society in the city, as his family has always been, is that you cannot escape it unless you escape the city itself, which Castiel seldom has time to do. On the other hand, though, Castiel feels a selfish sort of reticence to encourage _too_ much intimacy between Anna and Mr. Winchester. Or maybe he is simply too afraid what it would mean for himself to be in the man's presence for such an extended period, in the close quarters of the man's own house. The prospect is both alluring and terribly terrifying.

Castiel shifts anxiously in his seat. "And where does Mr. Winchester live?" he inquires as a distraction, while he assembles his thoughts.

"Somewhere up North," she waves her hand. "I don't quite remember the name, though it sounded truly charming when he described it to me and Jo."

"Jo?" Castiel frowns, confused.

"Oh!" his sister seems flustered, and ducks her head to hide her blush. "Joanna. Ms. Joanna Harvelle."

 _Ah, a nickname_ , Castiel thinks. The thought of nicknames brings back the memory of another: _Cas,_ Mr. Winchester had called him, improperly familiar but in a tone Castiel yearns to hear again. His own soft flush is gracefully hidden by the glow of the fire in front of him.

It is also with that fond memory that Castiel comes to his decision.

"Well, I doubt your dear friend Jo could bear to go without you, in that case. We shall both go," Castiel nods, and smiles fondly at his sister's jump of delight.

His stomach does its own little jump of delightful anticipation, and Castiel frowns for all the evening after, trying to figure out _why_.

 

  
***

 


	2. Chapter 2

  
***

 

  
The evening before they are to embark on their journey up North, Castiel is restless. He cannot remember the last time he travelled _anywhere_ for anything other than business--he is not quite sure what he ought to pack. Most of his suits are overly formal for anything like a vacation, and Castiel feels too out of touch with the latest fashions to know what he should purchase instead. His sister would provide the desperately needed sage advice, he knows, but he's also afraid he has left this hole in his wardrobe open for far too long. He has run out of time.

He scours the house for his sister in which to sulk to her. He's not in the habit of talking much when he is surly, but Anna's bright, infectious company has always been a good remedy for his moods since they were young children.

He finds her in her room, back-lit by the subtle glow of the candles by her bedside, and the warm hearth of the fire to its right. She is humming to herself as she sorts through her dresses, evidently busy in picking out which ones she would like to bring with her on their vacation.

Castiel lingers unnoticed in the doorway for a moment, wondering is Anna is daydreaming of what dress will look best when Winchester proposes. He is a terrible brother indeed that he lets that image sour his thoughts further.

He clears his throat. "Are you..." he trails off, at a loss for how to gently phrase this, and avoid his sister accusing him of being the nosy sibling he most certainly is being.

When he doesn't continue after a beat, Anna smiles encouragingly. "Yes, brother. Do go on."

Castiel takes a hesitant step into the room, attempting to sound and seem as casual as possible. "Are you and Mr. Winchester... friends?" he asks, trailing a hand across the wood of her bed frame as he approaches her.

Anna glances at him with confusion before turning her attention back to her task of picking and folding dresses. "I don't think he would have very well invited us to stay in his house if he wasn't," she points out.

"I mean... are you--Are you intending to, while at his house..."

Anna drops the dress she had been holding to stare at him, exasperated at being so inelegantly interrupted, but also clearly curious about what Castiel wants to ask her. "It does not suit you to be so speechless, Castiel," she accuses gently. It's true. Castiel vastly favours silence over stuttering, if he is unsure of what to say, but it appears thoughts of Mr. Winchester have caught him off guard yet again.

He sighs and tries again. "Do you harbour any romantic intentions for your stay with the Harvelles at Mr. Winchester's?" he asks flatly.

There is a long, meaningful pause before Anna speaks again. Castiel is just unsure as to _what_ it means. "You're not usually so interested in my love life," she says, hands and gaze distracted with arranging her suitcase.

"I do not usually accompany you on social retreats either," Castiel feels the need to point out, but that ends up being his ultimate folly.

Anna drops everything, coming to a realisation. "Is that why..." she wonders as she turns to him, defensive. "Castiel Milton, do you intend to _chaperone_ me?" her stare is sharp and piercing, and Castiel wonders, not for the first time in his life, if his sister is not at heart some ethereal angel thrown down from on high. Her presence now reminds Castiel of the first time he read Revelations, and the armies of heaven swarmed.

"Nonsense," he denies, quickly. His motives are far more selfish, indeed. But he need not admit that yet. "I know you are perfectly capable of handling yourself. I accepted the invitation because I wish to heed your advice by getting to know your friend Winchester better." It is only a half-truth, but it seems to settle his sister.

"Well, then. Mr. Winchester will be happy, I'm sure," she smiles. "He has often mentioned you, you know, and the evening you met."

Well, _that_ is certainly preposterous. "That was also the evening he met _you_ ," Castiel says. "Are you sure he was really talking about _me?_ " He is overwhelmingly doubtful.

Anna only laughs, not mockingly however, but in good humour. "He and I are close enough by now that I do hope that if he wished to complement me now it would not be by saying I looked lovely _several months ago_. That implies I have aged since then."

"You _have_ aged since then," Castiel corrects dryly, returned to his old self. "Such is the passing of time, dear sister."

She laughs again. "And _you_ , dear brother, are slowing me down." She begins the to push him out the door. Just as Castiel has passed the threshold of her room back into the hall, she pauses to say, "Go pack your own suitcase, you burgeoning gossip," and then shuts her door in his face.

  
***

 

  
The Harvelles' carriage arrives at their door promptly at 8 o'clock the next morning, this being the prime travel time if they are to get to the inn halfway along their journey by supper. 8 o'clock in the mourning, is not, however, the optimal time of day for Castiel to be conscious without at least several strong cups of tea in him, and so therefore he is groggy and grumpy for at least the first few hours of their trip.

Before they embark, however, is his cognisant enough of his surroundings to notice that one very important member of their party is missing.

"Is Mr. Winchester not joining us in the carriage?" Castiel finds himself asking, voice still rough with its usual morning tone.

Mrs. Harvelle shakes her head as they climb up into the compartment of the carriage. "He rode on along ahead of us yesterday evening, to make sure the house was properly open for visitors."

Castiel _tries_ to tell himself that Mr. Winchester's absence does not make him even grumpier. He is afraid that he is not very successful. It is all very silly, though, he thinks to himself, that he might meet the man again and realise after a second evening's conversation with the man, that he cannot stand him.

A second voice inside his head whispers that that is very unlikely indeed.

  
***

  
Their stay at the inn is wholly unremarkable. Castiel likes to think that he is no snob, of course, and therefore is unperturbed by the relative crampedness of the establishment compared to their apartments back in town, but their residence in a small village by the side of the highway is no lap of luxury either. They eat a simple, late supper of beef stew and slightly stale bread, and tuck in early, for another eager morning start the next day.

Conversation in the carriage on both legs of their journey is not much of Castiel's element either, for it is mostly taken up by Anna and Jo's rapt discussions of people and places Castiel either knows too little or too much about to be an adequate addition to their small talk. He wouldn't want to disturb their easy camaraderie anyway. It has been awhile since Anna has found any very close friends, besides Castiel himself, and Ms. Harvelle seems like a kind, strong match for his sister.

Perhaps there is the added benefit that Ms. Joanna Harvelle was childhood friends with Mr. Winchester, Castiel thinks, as he stares out the window of their carriage, idly counting the number of passing trees.

All their collective boredom is relieved, however, when they enter the gates to what must be the Winchester estate, for Ms. Harvelle sits up a little straighter, and giddily taps her mother on the shoulder, awaking her from her light doze.

For a man Castiel has never heard of, Dean Winchester's estate not only looks vaster than Castiel would have expected, but a good deal older, too. The gates themselves are impressive, with elaborate carvings among the stone pillars, framing the wrought iron gates. Curled up around both pillars crawl what seem to be two stone dragons. Castiel thinks he should like to get a closer look at the other carvings when he has some free time. He wonders what secrets they might yield.

"Mr. Winchester cannot be related to the Winchesters of the South, can he not?" he asks Mrs. Harvelle, hoping to clarify the family's origins. Castiel's own family is a long, rich established line, and therefore he has grown up knowing the names of all the big families. A man of business, himself, too, he is used to encountering many up and coming businessman. Dean Winchester has never been among them.

"No, no," Mrs. Harvelle shakes her head. "Winchester is his father's name, and his father was a man of industry around these parts, no relation to the Earl in the South. The estate you see hear once belonged to his mother's side. You have heard of Samuel Campbell, I'm sure?"

Castiel has. He is familiar where his family's money has been, and after his father died and Castiel undertook the task of going through all his old books, he recalls finding the name coming up often. Samuel Campbell had been a titan among many business circles, and Castiel would not be surprised if it was within those circles Dean Winchester's mother met Dean Winchester's father. He also remembers hearing the name come up somewhere else, but he cannot for the life of him remember where.

It is no matter, though, for as their carriage finally turns the last line of trees and the manor house of Mr. Winchester comes into view, Castiel sits back, content. The air of mystery around Mr. Winchester has finally dissipated.

Or, so he thinks.

  
***

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone curious, this is sort of nebulously set around 1840!

  
***

 

  
It was not unusual for someone of Dean Winchester’s career and age, and unmarried bachelor status, to make extended visits into town. It was, however, unusual for Dean Winchester, who was perhaps an unusual sort of fellow. It’s not that Dean was unsociable, no, indeed he did like to fancy himself fairly good at charming smiles out of strangers, but that he vastly preferred the society of his country town than that of the too-active, too-dangerous city. Dean wasn’t afraid of people, but he _was_ afraid of what people thought of _him_. The judgments of the more educated, richer city folk always stood like a shadow at the back of his mind when he was there, meaning he seldom felt comfortable except safe in the homes of friends.

“You’re not poor, Dean,” Jo had told him once, confused as to why he was so anxious about potential judgment. “Not that if you _were_ that would be just cause for any cruelty, _of course_. But you’re comfortable, yes?”

It was true that Dean was able to make a decent living, but he was certainly not rich by any means, nor entirely secure in what small fortune he had amassed. His skill set inherited from his father as a railway engineer had garnered him some business interest as of late, but at the rate that technology was developing, who knew when Dean would be rendered obsolete again.

“Yes, but that’s—” he had tried to explain to her. He had known Jo since he was young, but after the death of her own father, they’d silently agreed to keep family matters out of their friendship, which was a blessing, for Dean hated to talk about it. “My father pilfered away most of his inheritance from his marriage after the death of my mother,” he had admitted, hesitantly. He did not explain _how_ that money was squandered, but Jo had met his father when he was alive, and Dean had trusted she remembered the stench of gin and smoke that hung around his clothes during his many years of mourning. “We have the land of my grandfather—though for how much longer I don’t know—but I still live with my father’s name and _… reputation_.”

Jo had nodded in understanding. She too understood what it was to live with the spectre of a father, whose simultaneous absence and presence chokes hard in the darkest corners of the room.

That was all too say that it was not often that his friends the Harvelles managed to coax him out of their apartments in the city to any kind of event or gathering where any kind of smug stranger might be milling about. When they were successful, it was only ever to the symphony or the opera, for they knew well how to exploit Dean’s love of music, but rarely to anything as exposing as a _ballroom_.

But, well. There was indeed a first time for everything.

The night Dean Winchester met Castiel Milton, he almost did not go out at all. He’d had a tired and troubled time of it, of late, what with his brother away studying law in some prestigious school, and development conflicts over the potential railway that might soon be built to pass by their town. The evening he met a pair of siblings that would change his life forever, he argued with Jo for an hour, begging not to go. Ellen, Jo’s mother, too tired of hearing their bickering, finally put her foot down and insisted Dean accompany them, if only for a little while. Dean, after many a childhood mishap and run in, knew by now not to contradict Ellen Harvelle, lest he not live to tell the tale.

So he went, and met a young woman with sharp eyes and vibrant red hair, and dance with her until he was out of breath. He was then made breathless a second time by the eyes of her brother, piercing blues that threatened to pull Dean’s soul out of his chest, and save him from this place. He liked that Castiel seemed to hate conservative custom as much as him, as greatly indicated to him by his sister, but the man was truly impossible to read, with his near-constant scowl and tense, clipped tone. Dean left the ballroom that evening excited, but nervous, that as much as Dean was intrigued by Mr. Milton, the other man might very well want nothing to do with him.

Such would, however, prove not to be the case, for in the course of Dean’s developing friendship with Anna, who became Jo’s even faster friend, it was revealed that Castiel, Anna’s brother, had developed an annoying, pestering habit of asking very many questions about Dean.

Which was brought them all here today, at the steps of Dean’s family household. He knew Anna had been looking for some peaceful time alone with Jo, and the relative privacy of the country could afford them that. He also knew that Castiel would be likely to join them, and he would not be against a little privacy between the two of them as well.

When his friends step out of their carriage, Dean walks out and greets them with a smile, nodding towards the familiar shape of the Harvelles’ carriage behind them. “You came by carriage the whole way?” He asks. “You didn’t take the train?”

“Oh, Dean,” Jo laughs as she approaches, knowing Dean’s obsession with cars and engines, as she walks up the stone steps at the front of the house to be level with him. “You know my mother: she loves her horses too much to leave them behind.”

From just behind her, an unmistakable and deeper voice resonates. “There also isn’t, I believe, a train station within easy distance of here,” Castiel points out as he emerges, bold and beautiful, into Dean’s sight. “We would have had to have hired a coach in Milton either way.”

Mr. Milton clearly came dressed inappropriately for country living, but Dean, selfish as he is, cannot truly mourn the inevitable future loss of his fine waistcoat and cravat, for to see them now, pristine, in front of him, adorning that robust, tall body with perfect shape and colour, is a treat anyone would beg for. It is a good deal too formal for an informal vacation, but there is something about that sartorial dissonance that lends Castiel a curious sort of charm. It makes a curious warmth blossom in Dean’s chest. It also makes the corners of his mouth quirk up in an indulgent, teasing smile.

“It seems to me you would have not liked the train even if there _was_ a station near. Are you scornful of modern technology, Mr. Milton?” he asks as he ushers his guest into the house, through its large oak doors and into the lobby.

“I’m fully impressed and fascinated by the development of the engine,” Castiel counters defensively, with a handsome sort of scowl. “It’s not progress that frightens me, Mr. Winchester. I find coach travel, too, just as uncomfortable,” he explains, not taking his gaze off of Dean’s face, while his friends’ attentions are occupied by the décor of the lobby. “I would prefer to travel on horseback if I were without company.”

Dean nods. “You simply scorn the society of others then.”

“No,” Castiel denies, though Dean thinks his sister might have something to say about his defensiveness. Mr. Milton gestures towards the rest of their party. “Our friends here know how much I enjoy them. I simply like the freedom of the open air,” he says, a little wistfully, and Dean feels his mocking mask dissolve. It seems in Castiel Milton he might have found a kindred spirit in his love of the open air.

He ducks his head shyly, wondering if he should mention his life’s greatest love, his sleek black horse Impala. But to talk about her might bare too much that he is not ready to, so instead, he chooses to joke lightly, “Ah, then we do have something in common! You’re now permitted to stay.”

That wins a bit of a small smile from the ever-frowning Mr. Milton. “What a miracle, indeed.”

Dean leads them through the lobby for a quick tour of the house before letting them all get settled before the dinner he ordered specially for his esteemed guests.

“Though I do not think you would have had much success in throwing me to the road if we were to remain irreconcilable strangers,” Castiel says suddenly, after Dean has shown them all the sitting rooms and the library (one of his favourite places if he does say so himself). Dean turns around abruptly, caught off guard. Castiel’s mouth is twisted into a mysterious sort of playful smirk. “My sister cannot do without me, you see, and I know how you enjoy _her_ company.”

Dean raises a brow. He is unsure about quite what Mr. Milton is attempting to get at. “Yes, she is a delight,” he agrees, because that’s really the only response he can give such a comment as that. Mr. Milton tilts his head to look at him, as if trying to suss out the meaning behind is answer. Dean stares back in confusion.

So caught up are they, in the presence of each other, that Anna comes up behind them and takes Dean completely by surprise. “You flatter me,” she smiles, as she joins their conversation.

“No, simply stating fact,” Dean grins at her, but keeps Castiel in his vision.

“I’m afraid, Anna, this must be another point on which Mr. Winchester and myself agree,” Castiel says, blue eyes boring into Dean’s. He’s not smiling, face otherwise impassive, but the tone of his voice suggests he might be somewhere inside. Dean’s face burns with the need to find out.

“See! You are warming up to me already,” he says, with a singsong lilt in his voice. “I knew you could not be _so_ recluse and taciturn deep down.”

Castiel doesn’t smile this time either, but his eyes do light up with mirth. “Are you implying I was before? That’s not a very becoming compliment.”

“It wasn’t meant to be. You were quite stiff and awkward when we first met,” Dean says. It’s not so much an accusation as an objective observation. Even Castiel himself should agree to that, Dean thinks.

“I’m always… awkward,” Castiel says after a considered pause. “That does not mean I am reclusive.”

Dean wonders if he’s not trying to retroactively make himself seem friendlier at their first meeting. He’s about to say as much when Anna interrupts again, “You are though, dear brother,” she says, chastising him as kindly as she can. “You are friendly when you _want_ to be. But you are very selective of _when_ you want to be.”

Dean notices Castiel’s face shutter closed, relenting to his sister.

“Well, then let’s all just be glad that you deign to be with us, hmm?” Dean says to lighten the mood again.

Anna laughs, pleased. “Yes, indeed.”

 

  
***

 

  
After the tour finishes and the dinner table is set and accepting of them, Dean Winchester enjoys a hearty, delicious meal with both old friends and new. The dining room is altogether too big and dark for Dean’s liking, and reminds him too much of the austere presence of his grandfather, but it is the only dining space large enough for five people. When he’s alone, Dean prefers to take his meals in the kitchen, with the cook M. Benjamin Lafitte, who has become something of a close friend to Dean in his loneliest months, up in this cold house.

The meal is much appreciated by his friends, but their full stomachs remind them how tired the journey has made them. Instead of retiring for an after dinner tea or brandy, they decide as a group to beg off further activity until tomorrow, and would retire instead to bed.

Dean happens to catch Castiel in the small, dark space of the upstairs corridor, literally bumping right into him as he comes around the corner, unseen.

“You are a formidable force, Mr. Winchester,” Castiel huffs good-heartedly when he recovers from the shock of it.

It is too gloomy in the badly lit space of the wooden panelled hallway, but Dean smiles, despite himself. “Thank you.”

“I don’t know if I quite meant that as a compliment.”

“From you, I’ll take it as one all the same,” Dean dares to say, revelling in the safety of the darkness. If Castiel can only sees shadowy outlines of his face, flecked by candlelight, he’ll be safe from revealing the flush of his cheeks, warmed by the intense presence of the man before him.

“From me—?” Castiel cocks his head, in a very bird-like motion. Dean dares to think the man has also stepped a little closer.

“You are…” he begins, but then stops, unsure.

“What?”

He breaths out. “A mystery,” Dean admits. And then Castiel does the one thing Dean would not have expected as a reaction: Castiel laughs.

“What?” he asks.

“Nothing,” Castiel shakes his head, casting his gaze to the floor. “Only—I had thought the same thing about you as well.” Well, that is a surprise. Dean had never thought of himself as particularly complex a creature. He tends to wear his heart on his sleeve, as it were, to both his advantage and detriment. That Castiel has had a difficult time placing him, picking him apart, excites Dean and scares him. What does Castiel see?

“Well, I guess we’re both a bit fascinated by the other, then,” he whispers, and finds himself leaning into Castiel’s space.

Castiel’s eyes flick down to the curve of Dean’s mouth, and for a moment, Dean looses his breath. “Yes,” Castiel says, though affirming what, Dean does not know anymore. The only thing he knows in this terrifying, exhilarating second on the precipice of something big is that Castiel’s blue eyes are bright enough to light up even the most shrouded corners of this place.

“Cas, can I—” he finds himself saying, shortening Castiel’s name in what could be seen as an improper way, but he cannot help himself. His waistcoat feels entirely too tight tonight.

“Dean?” Castiel asks, swaying ever closer. The colour of his cravat matches his eyes perfectly, Dean idly notes, as he appreciates the way Castiel’s high, stiff collar frames his stubbled jaw.

“Yes?” he responds, eyes wide and fixated on the exquisite sharpness of Castiel’s face. His breath comes shorter, he licks his lips in anticipation, and he is just about to leap off an unknown cliff into a beautiful abyss when—

“Oh! Castiel. I thought you had gone to sleep,” Anna exclaims when she finds them, pulling them both very quickly out of their spell. Dean takes a wide step back self-consciously, as he sees Castiel’s shoulders stiffen.

“I was just on my way,” Castiel says, and his voice sounds rougher than Dean has ever heard before. “Dean was just showing me where I am to go,” he nods towards him.

“Ah!” Anna says in understanding. “Well, in that case, Mr. Winchester, if you may. I was looking for Mrs. And Ms. Harvelle’s chamber? Perhaps you could escort me as well.”

“Oh, um,” Dean stutters, still trying to find his bearings again after being shaken so thoroughly by a pair of fine eyes and cutting cheek bones.

“Only because I was wondering,” Anna continues, looking a little bit shy and flustered herself, though Dean knows not why. “If their room is not quite large enough for the both of them, Ms. Harvelle is welcome to sleep with me. You have given me quite a large bed for someone as slight as myself!”

“Ah, yes, yes, go ahead,” Dean implores her, happy to make his friends as comfortable as possible. He rarely ventures into rooms that are not his own, and so he fully acknowledges he might have made oversights in room sizes when assigning bedrooms to his guests. “It’s her decision, of course, but switch around if you must.”

“Excellent!” Anna smiles, very grateful. She puts a hand upon his arm. “Thank you. And thank you for inviting us here, you know. We are very glad to be here, earnestly,” she says, as Dean begins to show her down the hall to Ms. Harvelle. Castiel follows close behind, on Dean’s other side.

Dean, feeing bold, turns his head to whisper. “Even you, Mr. Milton?”

Castiel meets his eyes with a burning stare.

“Especially me.”

 

  
***


	4. Chapter 4

 

***

 

Anna shuts the door to her bequeathed bedroom as quietly as she can, trying her best not to make any undue sound echo off into the spacious caverns of the house. Behind her, Jo sits down on the large, fourposter bed with a contented, albeit tired sounding sigh.

“You were right,” she says, when Anna turns around to face her. “Your room is a good deal nicer than my mother's.”

Anna smirks at her friend, with the coyest of smiles. “I hope I'm a good deal nicer of a bedfellow than your mother as well,” she says, as she comes over to stand knees to knees with Jo, standing over her as she stays sitting on the bed. She reaches down to stroke away a fallen lock of Jo's golden hair.

“Oh, there's no doubt of that,” she whispers, gaze dropping to the soft curve of Jo's mouth.

Anna remembers vividly the first time she had ever had the occasion to touch that mouth, a few weeks after their re-acquaintance at that one, fateful ball. She had known Jo and her mother awhile, as in-the-know around society as Anna likes to be, but she rarely saw them or had any occasion to call, and so for the longest, most agonising time, the acquaintance remained merely that: an acquaintance.

Reunited under the rejuvenating force of Mr. Dean Winchester, however, soon Anna and Jo were exchanging letters almost daily, about nothing and everything, from idle thoughts to deep philosophies. Anna doesn't think she has ever met someone she has bared her soul to quite as keenly, quite as much.

Tonight, at the end of a long, mostly unoccupied hallway, she hopes to be able to bare rather more.

  


***

  


Jo's nightgown is silky and soft beneath Anna's fingertips as she traces the lace collar. Its stitching is lovely, handmade by a master hand, to be sure. But Anna believes the skin under it to be far lovelier, far more marvellous. There is a better mastery to her creamy skin than the white linens of her gown. Anna's light fingers trace the line of the bone of her collar, as Jo's eyes remain fixed on her face.

“Do you see something you like?” Jo teases.

“ _See_ it?” Anna smiles. The pad of her thumb grazes the bottom curve of Jo's lip. “I could go blind and I would still perceive you like this. Whole and before me.”

“Mmm, maybe,” Jo laughs, and leans back onto the bed, pulling Anna down with her, Jo's back pressed into the mattress. “But you still like to look.”

Anna's hand traces the silhouette of Jo's body through the sheer linens of the summer nightgown, tenderly, reverent. “I like to touch more.”

Jo smirks in that playful, friendly way of hers. Anna wants to eat it up, lick through and around the corners of it, taste her mirth on her skin. “Then touch me,” she says.

Anna does.

She doesn't undress her bedmate yet, nor herself for that matter, but instead chooses to revel in the pieces of skin already on offer. She kisses the tender spot behind Jo's ear until she hears a giggle.

“Your hair is in my mouth,” Jo laughs, brushing Anna's fallen red locks out of the way.

“Sorry,” Anna replies, embarrassed, and slings her errant hair behind her neck. “I spend so much time with my hair done up than I seldom know what to do with it down.”

Jo combs her finger through her hair, and curls a hand around her ear. “I like when your hair falls in my face,” she admits softly. “As long as it's not gagging me, it's like you're drawing a curtain over the rest of the world.”

Anna laughs and then kisses her, slow but thorough, pressing deep into the supple give of her friend's lips. She has waited a long time for this, this perfect moment of their bliss. It lives up to every expectation she could have had in her daydreams, in her idle moments of stolen thoughts. Jo's mouth tastes like a summer morning: a warm, welcoming heat that she could lie inside of forever. The way their bodies press together—even through the layers of their nightgowns—send such a perfectly succulent shiver through her. This is what humanity is about, she thinks, the aliveness of two bodies intertwined, the trueness love and loving and falling apart under the hands of a lover.

It needn't even be so sexual, she thinks, this sort of ultimate bliss. Anna has loved Jo enough without touch that she knows what peaks can still be reached just from the pull of the heart.

But tonight is not for the languages taught in schools, passed down by governesses—no. Tonight is for the kind of learning that can only occur truly from practice, the way an artist must study and sketch a live model in order to truly understand the ways and wonders of the human form. Anna has always known Jo was wonderous, but tonight, tonight she is _complicit_ in it, and it is an inexplicably thrilling feeling.

They strip without hurry, but with a burning intensity in both their bellies. Anna has seen nudes before. She has been to the halls of the arts academies. She has seen what the masters—mostly men—think of the female form. And indeed, despite some discrepancies, they are indeed beautiful. Trained artists have an eye for line and colour no matter the sex or gender of a figure that Anna has never cultivated in her own drawings, never having had the time for it (much to many a governess' chagrin). But standing up on her knees on the bedspread before her, Jo is no nude sight.

She is _naked_ , in all her golden glory, light by the orange glow of candles by the bed side, and received by Anna's own welcoming arms. Her breasts press softly into Anna's chest, and the pressure is exalting.

Anna traces the curve of Jo's hips as she lays back down, and follows the flesh of her stomach down to her inner thigh with her mouth. She knows now why poetry always seems to speak better of love than painting. All the great painters nowadays must know that nothing can reproduce the sight of something like this. Words too, are almost useless, but they can at least get close.

“ _Jo,_ ” Anna whispers, and there is a word, for instance, that works well. The shape and sound of that name, breathed yearningly through hungry lips, says something about Anna's heart that no painting could acquire even with the richest, most expensive pigments.

“That's me,” Jo jokes, and it is such a happy, lovely sound. Yes, this is what splendour is, Anna thinks. This is the wonder of a Turner sunset turned into pure sentiment, flowing through and between their skin.

  


***

  


The next day is unfortunately a fairly lazy one. Mr. Winchester regretfully begs off any further tour of the grounds on account of an urgent meeting in the nearby village, and so without the proper chaperone to show them the rest of the estate, the Milton and Harvelle party are left to their own devices, and to experience the splendours of the house alone. It's no extreme burden of course, because Anna knows Castiel could sit in Dean's library for ages and never tire of it, for the sheer size of the collection. For her own part, Anna simply needs good company to feel entertained, and among Jo and her mother and her own brother, she's certainly at no lack of that.

Dean returns to them just before dinner, in time for another delicious and savoury meal, with venison from Dean's own estate and own hunting hand.

After the meal, they retire together to the drawing room with best fire, and the comfiest couches. Castiel, as usual, picks up the book he had been reading before dinner and Dean's returned arrival.

“Castiel,” Anna begins. “Unless you intend to read to us perhaps your intense attentions might be a better use with a game of cards instead?” she suggests. She hasn't had the chance at a good gam e in a good long while, and her competitive streak tingles.

Castiel,'s eyes flick up at her from the page of his book, frowning. “It's not inappropriate at all for one to read after dinner,” he objects.

“Indeed, not at all,” Dean interjects, and Anna notices Casitel's glace immediately turn to him. “But perhaps then you could take your sister's first suggestion and treat us to a reading.” Mr. Winchester's gaze does not waver from Castiel's, and Anna rather wonders if an entire other conversation is happening between them through eyesight alone.

Something is happening with her brother, of that, Anna is certain, but exactly what, she does not yet know.

Whatever is is, however, that Castiel understands from Dean's vibrant green eyes, it is enough for him to acquiesce for the sake of their entertainment. He gives his due sighs and frowns, but soon enough he settles back in his chair and the rest of them follow suit, and Castiel begins to read:

“ _A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:_  
 _Its loveliness increases; it will never_  
 _Pass into nothingness; but still will keep_  
 _A bower quiet for us, and a sleep_  
 _Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing._ ”

Castiel has always been a scholar and admirer of the Romantics, in his own, ironically reserved sort of way. Anna is not surprised at all at his choice of poetry.

“You—” Dean starts when Castiel hits a natural break, his voice husky as if unused, emerging from a sweet dream. “You read well, Mr. Milton,” he says, with a soft, healthy glow to his cheeks. Anna wonders if he had been glowing so before Castiel had begun the recitation, but her eyes had been quite occupied elsewhere, in the golden shine of another.

“Thank you,” Castiel says in kind. It's not his normal, stiff kind of response when complimented on something he already knows he is accomplished at. Castiel has never been an appreciator of platitudes unless they are useful. But coming from Dean perhaps... Perhaps that evokes a different sentiment entirely.

Anna puts a hand on Dean's upper arm, as they share the same sofa. “Oh, yes, Cas has always read with a very great and grave voice indeed. He can make anything sound important.”

Castiel frowns, though Anna is studied enough in the various characters of Castiel's frowns by now to know this expression is actually one of good humour. He is happy to play along, in that deadpan manner of his. “I can't tell if you are mocking me or complimenting me,” he says rather dryly.

“Both, brother,” Anna smiles, reclining comfortably back in her seat “It is the duty of a beloved sister to always include a little of both.”

“Well, I suppose that makes me honoured to have such a beloved sister who is so keen in her duty towards me.”

“Very honoured, I should think,” Jo comments, smiling. She glances towards Anna, with a secret sort of glimmer in her eye. It is _their_ shared secret. Jo knows well how keen Anna can truly be when it comes to her beloved.

Castiel begins his reading after that, but it is not long before his voice tires a bit, and Jo begins to drift off. Anna kindly suggests he leave it for the night, and Castiel, with a relieved and grateful glance at his sister, puts the book down.

They all linger in light conversation for awhile longer, though so Jo and her mother beg off to bed, citing a desire to be up early for exploration outside tomorrow. Dean promises to show them all the secrets of the gardens, and Jo leaves contented.

It is Mr. Winchester and the Miltons who remain, though Anna is perhaps only still in her seat instead of following Jo off to bed because she is simply to lazy to move. Sometimes she just likes to revel in the indulgent, languid feeling of being awake but doing nothing. She does not often get to, as she is contrarily too invested in her passions to give herself much silent respite. She'll take simple pleasures where she can get them. It is in this doze then, that she misses the beginning of Dean and Castiel's conversation.

She jerks back to full consciousness just time to hear Castiel ask, “Do you have any siblings, Mr. Winchester?”

“Uh, one, yes,” Dean answers, sounding rather surprised by the question. “His name's Sam,” he continues, tone turning warm and proud. “He's—well, he's the better of us, really. He's studying law right now. He'll become the best barrister in the country soon enough, mark my words.”

“I suppose you don't see him all too often, then, with you here and him at university.”

“No, I don't,” Dean admits, and it's a sad, reluctant sort of answer. That such few words betray such longing is truly a marvel of the human condition, Anna thinks. Clearly Dean is as close with Sam as Anna feels to Castiel, closer maybe, who knows. Anna had heard talk of a brother before of close, in some of her and Dean's more intimate moments, but never yet has she heard him talk so unreservedly about his family. Her ears strain to glean more.

“You're close, I take it?” Castiel asks, keeping his voice low presumably so he doesn't disturb Anna. Or perhaps he just wants to keep every one of Dean's words to himself.

Dean nods. “We're family,” he says, as if that should explain everything. Maybe it does. “We're all each other has left.”

“I understand,” Castiel returns, voice low and rough, but yet tender. “Well, I actually have more family than I care to know trying to involve me in their business and affairs, but when it comes to the question of _loved_ ones...” he trails off, and then grows quieter still, more earnest. “I have Anna.”

Anna smiles to herself at that, as a warm feeling rushes through her.

It is true that though they have often grown up surround by family too numerous to name, often people only had their own interests at heart. Friendships in their family were more about strategic alliances than true affection for the other. With Castiel, however, it had always been different. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that they are both the youngest even among their extended kin, as the only children from their rather's last marriage before he died. They had an elder half brother, but Anna never knew him. Michael Milton died before Anna had even grown to be a year old. Their cousins, who were many, did not interact with them much as children either. Now that Anna and Castiel are adults, they mostly only come to them for money. There are a few distant cousins that Anna does like as friends, thinking back to Hester and Inias, their second cousins on their mother's side, but they never lived within a convenient area of the city, and refused to close the distance. Anna saw them maybe once or twice every few years, never more.

Thank God, then, that Anna and Castiel had and have each other.

Dean hums in understanding. “I have Sam.”

After a moment, their conversation turns even more intimate.

“No... romantic sort of love, then?” Dean asks, trying his best to sound innocent. Anna does not think he does a very good job, but her brother, bless his soul, seems to remain quite ignorant to it. This certainly should turn into an interesting courtship, then, if it is to be so, Anna thinks. These two men are both so in tune with each other, yet on the other hand, on another page entirely. They seem to annoy and attract each other in equal measure. It is both amusing and agonising to watch.

“I think I _read_ too much of Keats to experience the same sentiment for myself,” Castiel admits, with a self-effacing smile. “I _am_ a bit of the sorry recluse you and everyone else often take me for.”

“I don't take you for someone sorry,” Dean says softly. Anna wonders if he even remembers she is in the room, or maybe now he is so far gone he does not even care. Anna can sympathise with the feeling. “Recluse...” he drawls off, and then smiles. “Maybe. But certainly not sorry.”

Castiel sits up straighter in his seat. Anna notes that he glance over to her seat nervously, as if making sure she is still distracted. She feigns disinterest. “No?” he asks tentatively, clearly yearning for requital.

“No,” Dean repeats. “How could I? I'm not sorry I met you.”

Anna hears her brother let out a relieved, surprised breath. “Neither am I.”

  


***

  


“I think my brother might be falling in love,” Anna says the next morning, peering out the window before they go down to breakfast.

Jo comes over to join her on the chaise that sits against the sill. She brushes a hand around the curve of Anna's ear, saving the stray strands of hair there from falling out of place entirely. Her hand lingers as she says lightly, “Only _your brother?_ ”

Anna smiles. “Of course. _I_ have already fallen fully,” she says, and kisses Jo on the cheek. “I am very happy here in my bed of love.”

Jo cups her face to steal her mouth back with her own. When she pulls back from Anna's lips she says, “I'm happy, too.”

“See? Why should I not fall if I have such strong arms to catch me.” Anna's voice is teasing, light, but she is not joking, really. She has seldom felt lighter in her entire life, but yet also never more grounded. She feels _free_.

“You're ridiculous,” Jo laughs.

Anna stands up and then offers a hand to Jo to pull her friend up with her. “All that ridiculousness belongs to you now, too,” she says.

Jo steals one last kiss before they begin the day.

“How lucky I am.”

  


***


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so very sorry the hiatus between chapters on this has been so long! I truly never meant it to happen, but my final semester of school got in the way, and let's just say I wanted to graduate with the semblance of at least _trying_ to maintain my GPA, haha. But now summer is blessedly here! Without further ado, then:

  


***

 

Castiel has a hard time keeping his eyes off Dean after that night. Not that his gaze had been particularly occupied by anything _but_ Dean since his arrival at the Winchester estate, but his interest has been so thoroughly piqued that he's afraid the splendour of the house and of the grounds might entirely pass him by. He'd be loathe to return to the city only to remember he'd squandered his entire vacation to the country all for a fantastical fixation that might never be. Which is why, the next morning, after a fitful night of sleep, titillatingly haunted by Dean's kind eyes and luscious mouth, Castiel elects to spend most of it outside.

Alone.

Perhaps in the gardens he might be able to collect himself again, he thinks, and so he steals away from breakfast before most of his companions are even awake, and makes his way down the path at an aimless gait.

The grounds are as remarkable as the house in many ways, Castiel finds. He wonders if the same architect who designed the manor also designed the gardens, for there is as a distinctive feel about them as distinct as the hallowed mahogany halls of the house itself. In many respects it's a typical English garden: there are walls of shrubbery that line paths and that specific, engineered kind of asymmetry among the blossoms in the flowerbeds. But that allowance for asymmetry here has given way to an unprecedented kind of aesthetic chaos, too. The vines around the side of the house have been allowed to overgrow, and weeds sprout up all along the middle and the edges of the gravel paths.

A more snobbish visitor might find it ugly, to see the signs of the garden gradually merging back into a forest, but not Castiel. He's always loved any kind of park or garden, always loved the outdoors, nature (an almost unfortunate disposition to one relegated to life in the dense city), and this one is no different. There is a brimming _wildness_ to it, Castiel thinks, to the way the wind rustles through the thick canopy of trees, to the way the acorns from the old oaks are scattered on the ground, seeds of more to come.

He makes his way around the house first, in a full circle along the path that encloses it, strolling leisurely and simply enjoying the peace. After one full turn, he veers right off a fork in the path he imagines will take him close to the edges of the grounds, near where their carriage had come through those elaborate gates the other day. He could just as well follow the road he knows leads directly from the front of the house, but he doesn't want to rush himself, and he'd prefer the shelter of the shrubbery to compose his thoughts. Even though the road is lined with trees, it would feel altogether too exposed. Castiel feels all too exposed all the time, these past few days, and while it's exciting, losing himself in Dean's presence, it is _terrifying_ , too. Castiel simply does not know what to make of it, and he _hates_ not knowing, not being in control.

And so, abandoning his last chance to rejoin his sister and friends back inside, Castiel makes his way into the denser part of the gardens where the trees start to twist and turn into woods.

  


***

  


Eventually, his spontaneous, ad hoc route reconnects with the gravel way right in front of the big, elaborate gates Castiel had once been so fascinated by. Up close, Castiel realises that the sculpture of the engaged columns supporting the large, iron bars of the gates themselves are even more decorative and elaborate than he had even previously given them credit for. In addition to the two large, serpentine tails of the dragon-like creatures coiling up the columns like a Bernini oeuvre turned gothic-grotesque, the composite capitals sport not acanthus leaves like one might expect in the typical corinthian curl, but the stone mimicry of an array of different leaves and flora, no doubt each with a specific meaning. In the patterns at the base, Castiel notes what looks like a kind of Celtic knot instead of the usual Greek or Roman replica pattern, and he's both confused and intrigued by the esoteric nature of the design in equal measure. In the middle of the Iron tracery of the gate itself, Castiel spots an odd, star-like symbol forged with the metal, but it is like no star Castiel has ever seen.

As he resolves to ask Dean about the symbology of the gates later, he's disturb by a rustling sound amongst the leaves of the bushes behind him. Castiel turns around to the unexpected by welcome sight of a female deer, shockingly unshy and walking up towards him.

“Oh, hello there,” Castiel says to it, as it steps slowly closer, obviously gauging Castiel's level of threat.

“I suppose you'd prefer it if I left you alone,” he says as if it were a normal conversation, but the deer only huffs through its nose, as if insult by the idea that fear would overcome its curiosity.

“Oh, no?” Castiel cocks his head, and then stretches out his hand, palm upwards to show the deer he has nothing to hide. It paces closer, almost close enough to touch.

“There, see?” he smiles. “I only want to be friends.”

He reaches out as the deer's head brushes the tip of his fingers, but suddenly the deer's ears shoot up.

“Cas!” comes a cry from down the lane, and before he can see what the source of the disturbance was, the deer prances off back into the woods, permanently scared away. Feeling somewhat bereft and robbed, Castiel turns wearily to face his intruder upon his peace. When he spots them, however, is frown gives way instead to pleasant surprise.

“Dean?” Castiel starts, but then catches himself. He still doesn't _know_ what level of acquaintance they should be on. He knows what he feels, but feeling has rarely serviced hims for the better; he doesn't know if he should trust his heart again. He coughs in excuse, and bows his head in acknowledgement. “Excuse me—Mr. Winchester?”

Before him stands Dean in a simple hunting suit, unrevealing entirely of the wealth of the estate they both stand on. But its modesty is charming, at least to Castiel, endemic of some unobscured truth that Castiel yearns to reach out an touch. The smile upon Dean's face as he approaches is rather charming as well.

“I was—I saw you. From the house. I saw—” Dean tries to explain of his sudden presence so far from the house, but then sighs before he can gather himself completely. He grimaces, evidently slightly embarrassed. “I don't think I can explain this without betraying some dubious intent.”

Despite his momentary scowl at the loss of his brief four-legged friend, Castiel is ot angry at the intrusion. Far be it for him to object to Dean's presence, when all morning and afternoon he has been seldom able to think of anything else. “Well, I forgive you,” he smiles back.

Dean's shoulders sag with relief.

“So did you enjoy your walk?” he asks politely, as he steps to be side by side with Castiel before the gates and their small, buttressing walls. “The gardens?”

“Indeed,” Castiel tells him with all sincerity. “Your property is beautiful. A bit untamed, of course, but...” he trails off as he tilts his head thoughtfully.

Dean raises an inquisitive brow. “But what?”

Castiel makes sure he has the full attention of Dean's golden-flecked green eyes before he replies, “I like it for that.”

The admission elicits a laugh, and in the motion of Dean looking up at the gate himself, their shoulders brush. Castiel's heart unashamedly jumps at the contact.

“I would not have thought one so seemingly proper as you to like a bit of chaos in your life,” Dean comments when he turns back to face him. By the tone of his voice Castiel knows he means it amicably, so of course Castiel takes no offence.

“And I wouldn't have thought you one to spy and stalk me from the house,” Castiel teases back, but perhaps his tone is too flat, his own expression too blank, for Dean's smile falls.

“So you _do_ find my actions suspicious, then,” he accuses, face now taught anxiously.

Castiel raises his brow. For his own part he is only tentatively flattered, but Dean's doubt produces doubt of his own. “Do _you?_ ”

“I asked first,” Dean deflects, and Castiel cannot in fairness fault him for it. It is simply true.

“Well, then,” Castiel begins, angling his body so their chests are parallel, a mere foot apart. “You've trapped yourself into receiving an honest answer: no, I don't, exactly,” he admits, and observes Dean's relaxing reaction before he continues. “They're not suspicious if they mean what I hope they mean. If not... then perhaps.”

Castiel has never been so daring in his life with this honesty of emotion, spoken aloud: he had never felt _allowed_ before. But here, in this new yet increasingly familiar place, among the shelter of nature left to its own devices, Castiel feels oddly, amazingly _free_. Dean's gaze upon him feels slightly like the sun, in its intensity, but Castiel's skin is positively _yearning_ for it, tingling beneath the too-thick wool of his jacket. Here, before Dean, for the first time, in a long time, as if woken from a long sleep, he feels want— _need_.

Dean swallows thickly, Adam's apple bobbing against his cravat and collar. They are already standing so close, but he steps an inch closer. “And what do you hope they mean?” he asks, voice rougher now, heavier with intent. Castiel stands tall and taught, coiled with anticipation.

“That I've captured your attention,” he says, as the closes the last few inches until they are but chest to chest. “I'm not wrong, am I?”

“No,” Dean says, voice wavering, eyes flickering down to Castiel's parted lips. His eyes are even brighter, up close, Castiel distantly thinks against the encroaching fog in his brain, bright and beautiful as his smile.

“Good,” he says quietly, but meaning it fiercely with every fibre of his being. If Castiel knows nothing else about this place, this life, this universe, it's that Dean is _good_.

Dean's breath catches on his echoed reply. “Good,” he says, mouth floating ever-nearer, but never quite near enough.

“ _Dean,_ ” Castiel half-growls, impatient with the pace of their dance around each other. The ice of doubt is melted by the fire that burns within his chest, that he sees reflect in Dean's gaze and his cheeks, as rosy red as his mouth. Castiel has one last idle, ridiculous thought wondering if Dean's lips taste as sweetly pink as they look before he huffs and presses his mouth to Dean's.

It's both nothing and everything Castiel had imagined. With desperately limited courtship experience, he doesn't _know_ really what Dean's mouth compares to with regards to the myriad of other mouths in the world, but in this moment, he doesn't care that he has no real basis for comparison. All he cares is that Dean, the mysterious Mr Winchester, is kissing him. And Castiel—he is kissing Dean right back.

The give of their mouths against each other is imperfect—he doesn't expect the stubble of Dean's cheek to be so scratchy, as his has always been quite soft despite the harsh lines of his face, and he doesn't quite know what to make of the flavour of Dean's saliva as their lips slightly part under the mutual pressure—but perhaps imperfect is better, as imperfect is unplanned, un precedented, entirely ordinary and extraordinary at the same time because it is, by definition, a deviation form the plan. Imperfect is the sound of Dean's breath, of the feel of his hands as they cup Castiel's face, of the feel of his neck as Castiel's fingers search the skin of his neck and the hairs at the back of his head, grabbing greedily. Imperfect is this strange encounter between two former strangers who somehow have become _friends_. Imperfect is the hoarse growl buried in his throat, unable to escape because Castiel does not want to breath.

But of course they must. With a wet sound, their lips regretfully leave each other, though their hands remain in place. “Cas, I—” Dean begins to say breathily, but of course, fate catches up with them yet again.

“Mr. Winchester!” a voice from the other side of the gates cries, as a man hops down off a horse that they had somehow missed hearing the gallop of its approach in all their fervour. They both drop their hands and step apart in an instant. Dean rushes to open the gates to allow the man and his horse inside, which if they are lucky have obscured them from their visitor a bit.

“Oh, it is good I caught you so easily!” their arrival says, catching his breath too, but for an entirely different reason. Castiel looks down at the ground while he composes himself, so he does not see the man hand an letter to Dean, who's face is suspiciously flush. “I have an urgent letter for you from Mr. Singer in the village,” the courier tells him. “He said it could not wait.”

Castiel raises his head to observe Dean's reaction to this news, and it is one of immediate action. Dean's shoulders straighten, his face unclouds and his gaze hardens. He opens the letter and scans it quickly. He clenches his jaw, and then looks up at Castiel a bit mournfully. Evidently their time together will be unable to resume in the near future.

“I'm sorry,” Dean explains, refolding the letter and putting it in his pocket. “Master Braeden here is right: this matter cannot wait.” He turns to the man, who Castiel realises now with Dean's use of the honourific is really more of a boy. He cannot be more than 16, by the looks of it, and perhaps younger. His face is still nice and round with the look of youth.

“Can I borrow your horse, Ben?” Dean asks the boy, who apparently Dean knows quite well. “My friend Mr. Milton,” he motions to Castiel, “can walk back with you to the stables so you can be provided with a new one until I return. Although you can also stay for supper if you would like.”

Master Braeden grins. “Of course, I know my way around your horses well by now, you know,” he says happily, and hands the reins of the horse that he arrived on to Dean. Without waiting for Castiel's word, he displays this comfortability with the Winchester estate by making his way off down the lane.

Castiel turns to Dean before he saddles up on to the horse's back. “You'll be back for supper, I hope?” he asks gruffly, tyring not to sound too pathetic. He is already so, so far gone, he thinks ruefully.

“Uh,” Dean says distractedly, as he adjust the saddle's stirrups to his liking. “Ye—Yes, I should. I'm sorry, my mind's distracted,” he apologises when he's finished, straightening up. He holds Castiel's gaze and says sincerely, “Of course, I would hate to miss it.”

Castiel's mouth quirks in a small, conciliatory smile. “And I would hate to miss _you_.”

It is only when Dean is gone, galloping off down the lane on the back off the large brown steed, and Castiel turns to make his way back, that he realises he affectionately said _“I”_ instead of _“we”,_ despite knowing full well they will not be alone in the dining room for supper. Luckily no one else is around but the birds to see the light flush that creeps up into Castiel's cheeks as he imagines what _being alone_ would look like.

 


End file.
